It took more time to sort through the burnt-out wreckage of the Zalancthian camp than Eligon would have preferred. Vayābī’s news - that a delegation of elves awaited him back at the castle - had set him on edge, but given the strange potions they had discovered in the camp, Eligon knew their search couldn’t be anything less than thorough. Every scrap of evidence, no matter how small, needed to be collected.

Thus it was not till the following day that his forces finally set their sights on home. Even as he thought the word, Eligon felt its wrongness, wincing. Home?

The very thought of calling the mountain fortress of Dūr-Ṣâde or even his capital of Qud-Urudur his home left a bitter taste in his mouth. Corsythia, the gem of the eastern sea, the pride of the Corsyths, the throne of Shamsha’s heirs - that is my home, not my family's old hunting lodge.

But he knew the truth was more complex than that. The capital had fallen many decades ago, during his father’s reign. Eligon had been nothing but a child then, his brothers not even born yet, and his memories of the city were sparse; he had rarely ventured beyond the walls of the palace complex until the day the Zalancthians emerged in the heart of the city.

No one had believed that the enemy could have ever pierced the city’s fortifications. The ten great walls of enchanted iron that ringed the city were one of the greatest magical workings of the age before the gods set the system in place, a working that even the elves and Fey admired. Indeed, its long history, the city had never fallen to outside foes - although the walls had not saved the empire from the occasional struggle for the throne.

But the Zalancthians had simply bypassed the walls. For thousands of years, the enchantments had utterly prevented any portals from being opened within the city, but some unknown power, some unknown god, had smashed through those protections like they weren’t even there. Utterly caught off guard, with most of the city's guard stationed on the outer walls, far from the heart of the city, the capital had fallen within hours, and all attempts to reclaim it had failed. No, as much as it pained Eligon to admit it, even his own memories of the city had begun to fade, while his own children had never even caught so much as a glimpse of its fabled walls.

Perhaps Qud-Urudur really is my home now, he was begrudgingly forced to concede. But Eligon promised himself that would change. I will not permit the stoneflesh to sully our shores forever. It would have been an empty promise at the beginning of his reign, but the tides of war had changed. He did not know what had unified the Zalancthians in their relentless war against the empire, but fractures had begun to appear. From what few informants he still possessed in the south, a long-brewing rivalry amongst the Zalancthian governors there was rapidly progressing into a full-fledged civil war.

Eligon would not - could not - afford to let such an opportunity pass him by. He had to strike in their moment of weakness. But, his lips turned down as the delegation of elves, and the king of Hadīn’s frantic warnings about the dwarves, returned to the forefront of his mind. Assuming outside forces don’t stop me, he thought, bitterly.

The messenger from Dūr-Ṣâde hadn’t tarried long enough to learn from which realm the elves came, departing as soon as the elves had appeared, but if they were from Yammaqom, Eligon had a pretty good idea of what they wanted. Every few years, a delegation from there came with the same list of demands, the same petty conditions. Return House Nūrilī to the throne. Forfeit all wealth and holdings. Accept your punishment. He muttered the words mockingly. The demands were a complete non-starter.

His father’s penchant for throwing these emissaries into the deepest, darkest dungeons he could find had put a stop to the delegations for a time, but it had also put a serious crimp in the trade between their realms. As much as the elves' demands annoyed him, Eligon was not his father. He would not harm what remained of his empire merely to save face and so, begrudgingly, he had tolerated their disrespect.

Suffocating a sigh, he pushed the thoughts away. There was nothing to be gained by speculating about the elves’ intentions. He would know soon enough.

As if mimicking his gloomy thoughts, the heavens opened up as they marched. A steady rain poured down on them with an unexpected ferocity. The warmth of summer dropped quickly in the hills, as the wind and rain scoured the land. The weather did little to slow them down as long as they followed the old imperial roads, but once the troops turned off the path to head into the mountains that sheltered Dūr-Ṣâde, the mud transformed their march into a crawl.

Fortunately, they did not have much further to go. Soon enough the welcome sight of Dūr-Ṣâde's lofty spires peaked above the trees, the usually shiny, burnished roofs dull in the gathering gloom. Once nothing more than a humble hunting manor - a possession of his family from a time when they were still just dukes in the province of West Corsythia - Dūr-Ṣâde had been radically transformed over the course of two centuries of war.

Backed up against the face of a sheer cliff, a small city had sprung up around the lodge, as its proximity to the front lines made it the perfect staging ground for the empire's campaigns against the Zalancthians. Encircled by a stout pair of curtain walls, Dūr-Ṣâde’s true strength lay in the moat whose deep waters wrapped around its base. No bridge spanned the moat, with the only access to the fortress provided by the group of water mages that perpetually manned its walls and - in times of danger - turned those very waters into a force of destruction. The fortifications would have done little against the elves or Fey, but against the Zalancthians, whose magical abilities were borderline nonexistent, it was an almost impenetrable line of defense.

Despite the torrential downpour, the guards had seen them coming. Eligon was relieved to see a bridge of ice already stretched across the moat as the castle came into view. Even with several mages working together, such a major working took a considerable amount of time, and he was glad to not have to wait. The already slick ice was made even more treacherous by the torrential downpour, but Eligon made it safely across, shivering with pleasure as he abandoned his horse at the stable and was embraced by the pleasant warmth of his manor.

Servants met him at the door, ushering their lord up the back stairs to his room, away from the prying eyes of his unsolicited guests. It was only after a long, warm bath that Eligon prepared to meet his guests. Vayābī was already waiting for him as he left his room, his friend’s hair still obviously damp.

“Any more news on our elves?” Eligon asked as he cut a brisk pace down the paneled hall. “Just the usual?”

Vayābī fell into stride beside his liege. “No, my lord. I don’t know what they want, but it is not the usual delegation.”

Eligon’s stride faltered nearly imperceptibly as he turned his full attention to Vayābī. “In what way?”

“It is a much larger group than normal, and only a few are from Yammaqom. I spied some wearing the sigils of Onkodos Laos, and even some bearing the emblems of the more northern cities, ones that rarely venture to our lands. Thus far, they have refused to speak to anyone but you of their purpose.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Damn it,” Eligon sighed. “Well, I guess let’s find out what they want.”

The delegation awaited him in the great hall, rising from their seats around the grand table as he entered. The air was chill, and although the elves showed no sign of discomfort, used to the frozen wastes of the north, Eligon ordered the servants to stoke the fire before taking his seat at the head of the table.

His eyes swept down the length of the hall, quickly noting the varied emblems adorning their cloaks. The Lady of the Tides. The Lady of Mourning. The Stag Lord. The Blood Moon…. There were a few sigils mixed amongst them that he did not recognize, perhaps members of some of the lesser tribes, but seven of the eleven elven realms sat before him. Vayābī was indeed correct, he realized. This is no normal delegation.

“Welcome, children of Selene-” the delegate from Nāl-Halab, worshippers of the Stag Lord, snorted - “and Ayyālu,” Eligon added, trying to ignore the irritation that surged through him. “Tell me, what brings you to my humble halls?”

To Eligon’s surprise, it was an elf wearing the dark cloaks of Onkodos Laos that stepped forward. The ambassador was clearly ancient; the pair of antlers that sprouted from his head the largest Eligon had ever seen, and his long, pale hair was the color of spun moonlight. He tilted his head ot the left in respect before speaking. “We have come to negotiate a renewed alliance. We will grant you aid in your war against the Zalanctoi, in exchange for certain confessions."

Really? This again. Eligon didn’t even bother to hide his annoyance. “Concessions?” he barked. “Concessions?! Let me guess - you want me to abandon the throne.” He shook his head vehemently. "If the heir of Nūrili wants the empire, he is free to take it - if he can."

Only the faintest curl of the ancient one's lip told Eligon what the ambassador thought of his outburst, but the elf merely shook his head slowly. “Your dealings with Yammaqom are not our concern. Hear us out first.”

“Fine," Eligon conceded. "So what is your offer, and why now? Little has changed on the warfront, aside from the Zalancthians being a bit preoccupied with the strife between them in the south.”

The Onkodan emissary shook his head vehemently. “It is the west that troubles us.”

Eligon’s brows knit together. “Gemlirians? Or do you mean the dwarves?”

“The dwarves,” the delegate confirmed. “Not long ago, we received a message from a minor lord of the Strythani. A new queen has arisen among them, taking the name Naqmah - vengeance - she approached the king of Birānāti with the intent to forge an alliance.”

“But the Strythani have always been our allies," he objected. "What vengeance does this Naqmah seek?”

The elf shook his head. “The Strythani lord did not say, but he did reveal the dwarf king's plans. The lord of Birānāti plots a strike against Hadīn, believing that he could crush it before the empire's forces could even respond.”

And with a base secured on our side of the Inland Sea, a full-scaled invasion could be launched. Not even the roaring fire behind him could warm the chill that spread through his veins. “No,” Eligon muttered. “Surely, the Strytahni would not turn against us.”

The Onkodan delegate allowed himself a thin smile. “I believe you are correct, Lord Eligon - at least for now. The lord who informed us of their plans believed that the queen’s attempted alliance had fallen through, but the dwarves are still proceeding with their mobilization. But the Strytahni reside in the midst of the dwarves, far from the empire's borders. With the empire weakened,” he shrugged, "they may turn to new allies."

So the Djinn King’s fears were warranted. “So, why offer aid now?” Eligon asked, but he could already guess the answer. There was little love lost between the dwarves and the elves, at least on the dwarves’ part.

The emissary confirmed his suspicions. “The dwarves have long blamed our kin for their own fall from grace; if we allow them to crush you, we will certainly be the next target of their ire.”

“And these conditions you spoke of? Long have the delegates of Yammaqom demanded that House Gonya surrender the throne, surrender our homes and our lives to the judgment of House Nūrilī.” His voice swelled, thundering through the hall as he stared down the elven delegation. "If those are the terms you have come to offer me, you may as well leave now, while you can."

The old Onkodan priest met Eligon's wrath with a steely gaze. “As I told you before, we are not Yammaqom. We have already brokered a compromise with them, an agreement quite different from their previous demands, one that I believe that you will not easily turn down.”

At a wave of his hand, a servant carted a file from him to the emperor. Eligon scanned through the pages rapidly quickly. The elf had spoken truly. Not only was it different from previous demands, but the offer was in many ways far better than he had expected, but the fundamental condition still galled at him. The entire agreement hinged on one immutable factor - in exchange for elven troops, the Gonyan emperors would be required to surrender the throne back to the ancient dynasty of Corsythia, House Nūrilī.

The rest of the details were different, surprisingly fair even. All the punishments that previous delegations from Yammaqom had threatened him with had been removed, replaced instead with a number of guarantees. As long as the Gonyan House surrendered power peacefully, the family’s rights to their ancestral lands - the lands they had ruled before seizing the throne - would be upheld, and even the current capital Qud-Urudur, which they had not held until the fall of the city of Corsythia, was also guaranteed to them. The heirs of House Nūrilī had sworn to take no action against them and there were even arrangements provided for those that might preferr to leave the confines of the empire, as three of the elven realms, including Onkodos Laos offered them permanent sanctuary.

In return, the elves promised to provide a small force to support his campaign to reclaim the capital city and, more important for their concerns, committed to providing a sizable army to defend the provinces of Hadīn and Celestia against any and all dwarven incursions.

The one provision that surprised him, though, was saved for last. Neither Eligon - nor his heirs - were required to surrender the throne until after the Zalancthian threat was defeated. That could be decades from now. The implication was clear, though. The elves' concern about the dwarves was genuine enough that they were willing to delay the return of House Nūrilī in return for his agreement. They must not have much faith in the current heir’s ability to finish the conflict, either, he realized. Eligon wasn’t surprised; he had never met House Nūrilī’s heir, but by all accounts, he was witty, charming, and completely inept in battle. Of course, he also knew that his courtiers might not be the most unbiased source.

It took more than an hour for him to thoroughly probe the finer details of the contract, but when Eligon finally set it down, he was keenly aware of the sea of eyes trained on him. His mind was in turmoil. He could feel their expectation, their anticipation that he would give in to their demands, but every fiber of his body revolted against the mere idea, against the sheer audacity of being asked to surrender the throne.

But with both the Djinn and the Elves warning him of the dwarves' intentions - when both races' felt moved to offer military help - Eligon knew he would be a fool to dismiss the threat. A bitter smile graced his lips. And they don't even know yet about the strange potions I discovered amongst the Zalancthians.

His thoughts from the march home returned to him. I am not my father. Eligon had promised himself, time and again, that he would not sacrifice the best interests of the empire for his own personal gain. He had never considered Yammaqom’s demands anything more than a nuisance, but this deal…. He was forced to concede that this deal was different.

No, Eligon just couldn't bring himself to agree to the deal, at least not immediately.

Finally meeting the eyes of the Onkodan emissary, he returned the gesture of respect the Onkodan elf had given him, inclining his head to the left. “I will consider your proposal. Perhaps we can reach an agreement, with emendations.” Eligon didn’t miss the flicker of surprise in the ambassador from Yammaqom’s eyes. “In the meantime, I have something of my own to show you. I’m afraid the dwarves may not be the only threat to worry about.”